Читать книгу Sir Henry Irving—A Record of Over Twenty Years at the Lyceum - Fitzgerald Percy Hetherington - Страница 7

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The directress of the new venture at the St. James’s Theatre was Miss Herbert, a graceful, sympathetic person of much beauty, with exquisite golden hair and almost devotional features, which supplied many of the Pre-Raphaelite brethren with angelic faces for their canvases. On the stage her efforts were directed by great intelligence and spirit, and she was now about to essay all the difficulties and perplexities of management. Like so many others, she had before her a very high ideal of her office: the good, vivacious old comedies, with refined, correct acting, were to entice the wayward public, with pieces by Reade, Tom Taylor, and Boucicault. This pleasing actress was destined to have a chequered course of struggle and adventure, a mingled yarn of success and disappointment, and has long since retired from the stage.

At the St. James’s Theatre the company was formed of the manageress herself; of Walter Lacy, an actor of fine polish and grace; of Addison, one of the old school; with that excellent mirth-making pair, the Frank Mathews. The stage-manager was Irving. Here, then, he found himself, to his inexpressible satisfaction, in a respected and respectable position, one very different from that of the actor-of-all-work in the provinces. Not the least comforting reflection was that he had won his way to this station by remarkable talent and conscientious labour. The theatre opened on October 6, 1866. ‘Hunted Down’ was the piece originally fixed upon, but it could not be got ready in time, so a change was made to the lively old comedy of the ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ the name which it had been originally proposed to give to Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer.’

The actor tells us of this interesting occasion: “I was cast for Doricourt, a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me; I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, upon my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience, that I was compelled to reappear upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except upon the operatic stage.”[3] This compliment is nearly always paid to our actor when he performs this part.

In the criticisms of the piece the efforts of the interesting manageress-actress of course received the chief attention. Dramatic criticism, however, at this time was of a somewhat slender kind, and the elaborate study of an individual performer’s merits was not then in fashion. The play itself was then “the thing,” and accordingly we find the new actor’s exertions dealt with in a curt but encouraging style: “Mr. H. Irving was the fine gentleman in Doricourt: but he was more, for his mad scenes were truthfully conceived and most subtly executed.” Thus the Athenæum. And Mr. Oxenford, with his usual reserve, after pronouncing that the comedy was “a compound of English dulness and Italian pantomime,” added that Doricourt “was heavy company till he feigns madness, and the mock insanity represented by Mr. H. Irving is the cause of considerable mirth.” This slight and meagre tribute contrasts oddly with the elaborate fulness of stage criticism in our day.

The piece has always continued in the actor’s répertoire, after being compressed into a few scenes. The rich, old-fashioned dress and powder suits the performer and sets off his intelligent features, which wear a smiling expression, as though consciously enjoying the comedy flavour of the piece.

A little later, on November 5, ‘Hunted Down’ was brought forward, in which the actor, as Rawdon Scudamore, made a deep impression. It was declared that the part “completely served the purpose of displaying the talent of Mr. Henry Irving, whose ability in depicting the most vindictive feelings, merely by dint of facial expression, is very remarkable.” Facial expression is, unhappily, but little used on our English stage, and yet it is one of the most potent agencies—more so than speech or gesture.[4] It was admitted, too, that he displayed another precious gift—reserve—conveying even more than he expressed: a store of secret villainy as yet unrevealed. Many were the compliments paid him on this creation; and friends of Charles Dickens know how much struck he was with the new actor’s impersonation. The novelist was always eager to recognise new talent of this kind. Some years later, “Charles Dickens the younger,” as he was then called, related at a banquet how his celebrated father had once gone to see the ‘Lancashire Lass,’ and on his return home had said: “But there was a young fellow in the play who sits at the table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of art.” A worthy descendant of the Kembles, Mrs. Sartoris, also heartily appreciated his powers.[5] During the season a round of pieces were brought forward, such as ‘The Road to Ruin,’ ‘The School for Scandal’ (in which he played young Dornton and Joseph Surface), ‘Robert Macaire,’ and a new Robertson drama, ‘A Rapid Thaw,’ in which he took the part of a conventional Irishman, O’Hoolagan! It must have been a quaint surprise to see our actor in a Hibernian character. After the season closed, the company went “on tour” to Liverpool, Dublin, and other towns.[6]

Miss Herbert’s venture, like so many other ventures planned on an intellectual basis, did not flourish exceedingly; and in the course of the years that followed we find our actor appearing rather fitfully at various London theatres, which at this time, before the great revival of the stage, were in rather an unsettled state. He went with Sothern to play in Paris, appearing at the Théâtre des Italiens, and in December, 1867, found an engagement at the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre, a sort of “converted” concert-room, where nothing seemed to thrive; and here for the first time he played with Miss Ellen Terry, in ‘Catherine and Petruchio’ (a piece it might be well worth while to revive at the Lyceum); and in that very effective drama, ‘Dearer than Life,’ with Brough and Toole; in ‘The School for Scandal’; also making a striking effect in ‘Bill Sikes.’ I fancy this character, though somewhat discounted by Dubosc, would, if revived, add to his reputation. We find him also performing the lugubrious Falkland in ‘The Rivals.’ He also played Redburn in the highly popular ‘Lancashire Lass,’ which “ran” for many months. At the Queen’s Theatre he remained for over a year, not making any marked advance in his profession, owing to the lack of favourable opportunities. He had a part in Watts Phillips’ drama of ‘Not Guilty.’ Then, in 1869, he came to the Haymarket, and had an engagement at Drury Lane in Boucicault’s ‘Formosa,’ a piece that gave rise to much excited discussion on the ground of the “moralities.” His part was, however, colourless, being little more than a cardboard figure: anything fuller or rounder would have been lost on so huge a stage. It was performed, or “ran,” for over a hundred nights. With his sensitive, impressionable nature the performance of so barren a character must have been positive pain: his dramatic soul lay blank and fallow during the whole of that unhappy time. Not very much ground had been gained beyond the reputation of a sound and useful performer. Relying on my own personal impressions—for I followed him from the beginning of his course—I should say that the first distinct effort that left prominent and distinct impression was his performance at the Gaiety Theatre, in December, 1869, of the cold, pompous Mr. Chenevix, in Byron’s ‘Uncle Dick’s Darling.’ It was felt at once, as I then felt, that here was a rich original creation, a figure that lingered in the memory, and which you followed, as it moved, with interest and pleasure. There was a surprising finish and reserve. It was agreed that we had now an actor of genre, who had the power of creating a character. The impression made was really remarkable, and this specimen of good, pure comedy was set off by the pathetic acting of “friend Toole,” who played ‘Uncle Dick.’ This was a turning-point in his career, and no doubt led to an important advance. But these days of uncertainty were now to close. I can recall my own experience of the curious pleasure and satisfaction left by the performance of this unfamiliar actor, who suggested so much more than the rather meagre character itself conveyed. I found myself drawn to see it several times, and still the feeling was always that of some secret undeveloped power in the clever, yet unpretending, performer.

Irving can tell a story in the pleasantest “high comedy” manner, and without laying emphasis on points. In May last, being entertained by the “Savages,” he made a most agreeable speech, and related this adventure of his early Bohemian days, in illustration of the truth that “it is always well to have a personal acquaintance with a presiding magistrate.” “I had driven one night from the Albion to some rooms I occupied in old Quebec Street, and after bidding the cabman farewell, I was preparing to seek repose, when there came a knock at the door. Upon opening it I found the cabman, who said that I had given him a bad half-crown. Restraining myself, I told him ‘to be—to begone.’ I shut the door, but in a few moments there came another knock, and with the cabman appeared a policeman, who said, with the grave formality of his office, ‘You are charged with passing a bad half-crown, and must come with me to the police-station.’ I explained that I was a respectable, if unknown, citizen, pursuing a noble, though precarious, calling, and that I could be found in the morning at the address I had given. The policeman was not at all impressed by that, so I jumped into the cab and went to the station, where the charge was entered upon the night-sheet, and I was briefly requested to make myself at home. ‘Do you intend me to spend the night here?’ I said to the inspector. ‘Certainly,’ he said; ‘that is the idea.’ So I asked him to oblige me with a pencil and a piece of paper, which he reluctantly gave me. I addressed a few words to Sir Thomas Henry, who was then presiding magistrate at Bow Street, and with whom I had an intimacy, in an unofficial capacity. The inspector looked at me. ‘Do you know Sir Thomas Henry?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have that honour.’ The officer suddenly turned round to the policeman and said, ‘What do you mean by bringing such a charge against this gentleman?’ Then he turned fiercely on the cabman, and nearly kicked him out of the office. I returned home triumphantly in the cab. I cannot give a young ‘Savage’ first starting on his career a sounder piece of advice than this—‘Always know your own mind, and also a magistrate.’” We practised littérateurs might well envy the pleasant facility and point with which this is told.

About this time an attractive actor, who had been much followed on account of his good looks, one Harry Montague, had joined in management with two diverting drolls—as they were then—James and Thorne, who were the pillars of burlesque at the Strand Theatre. All three felt a sort of inspiration that they were capable of something higher and more “legitimate”—an impression which the event has more than justified. The two last, by assiduous study and better opportunities, became admirable comedians. A sort of club that had not prospered was lying unused in the Strand, and a little alteration converted it into a theatre. The three managers were anxiously looking for a piece of modern manners which would exhibit to advantage their several gifts. A young fellow, who had left his desk for playwriting, had brought them a sort of comedy which was in a very crude state, but which, it seemed likely, could be made what they wanted; and by the aid of their experience and suggestions, it was fashioned into shape. Indeed, it proved that never was a piece more admirably suited to the company that played it. The characters fitted them all, as it is called, “like gloves.” They were bright, interesting, natural, and humorous; the story was pleasing and interesting, and the dialogue agreeable and smart. Such was ‘The Two Roses,’ which still holds the stage, though it now seems a little old-fashioned. Irving was one of the performers, and was perhaps the best suited of the group. The perfect success of the piece proved how advantageous is the old system of having a piece “written in the theatre,” when the intelligence of the performers and that of the managers are brought in aid of each other. The little house opened on April 16, 1870, with a piece of Mr. Halliday’s; and it was not until a few weeks later that the piece was brought forward—on June 4. The success was instantaneous.

The unctuous Honey, in his own line an excellent original actor, raised in the good old school of the “low comedian,” which has now disappeared, was the good-natured Bagman—a part taken later by James, who was also excellent. Thorne was efficient, and sufficiently reserved, in the rather unmeaning blind Caleb Decie; while Montague was the gallant and interesting hero, Jack Wyatt. The two girls were represented in pleasing fashion by Miss Amy Fawcitt and Miss Newton. The piece, as I have said, owed much to the actors, though these again owed much to the piece. It is difficult to adjust the balance of obligation in such cases; but good actors can make nothing of a bad play, whereas a good play may make good actors. Irving, as Digby Grant, was the chief attraction, and his extraordinarily finished and varied playing of that insincere and selfish being excited general admiration.

It has not been noticed, in these days of appropriation, that the piece was practically an ingenious variation, or adaptation, of Dickens’ ‘Little Dorrit.’ For here we find old Dorrit, his two daughters, and one of their admirers; also the constant loans, the sudden good fortune, and the equally sudden reverse. It was easy to see that the piece had been formed by the evolution of this one character, the legitimate method, it has always seemed to me, of making a play; whereas the average dramatist adopts a reverse practice of finding a story, and then finding characters for it. Character itself is a story. The character of Digby Grant was the first that gave him firm hold of public favour. It belongs to pure comedy—a fidgety, selfish being, self-deluded by the practice of social hypocrisies, querulous, scheming, wheedling. It is curious that a very good actor, who later filled the part, took the villainy au sérieux, giving the complaint, “You annoy me very much!” repeated so often, as a genuine reproach, and with anger. Irving’s was the true view—a simulated vexation, “You annoy me very much!” The audience sees that he is not “annoyed very much.”

After our actor’s visit to America, his performance was noticed to be more elaborate and laboured, but it had lost some of its spontaneousness—a result which, it has been noted, is too often the result of playing to American audiences, who are pleased with broad effects. This piece continued to be played for about a year—then thought to be a prodigious run, though it is now found common enough—during which time Irving’s reputation steadily increased.[7]